The gold bangles were gone, replaced by a temporary calm. The infusion of seventy-two thousand rupees meant they could manage the six-week inventory drought and, more importantly, cover the estimated fee for the small, private nursing home near Greater Kailash. The hospital, with its sterile white tiles and hushed, air-conditioned hallways, felt worlds away from the loud, chaotic lanes of Lajpat Nagar.
Mira was officially on "maternity leave," a term Arun found both necessary and absurd. Her leave consisted of stopping the physical work of running packages to the post office and instead managing the online orders and customer communications from the sofa. Her large, round belly was now a geography they both navigated carefully.
The final weeks of the pregnancy were a blur of discomfort and anticipation. Every honk outside their window, every sudden rush of a passing scooter, made Mira jump. She longed for the silent, predictable rhythm of the mountains, where the only alarm was the rising sun.
One Tuesday morning, as Arun was meticulously calculating the profit margin on a new batch of chilgoza pine nuts, Mira gripped the edge of the dining table. The pain was sharp, immediate, and unmistakable.
"Arun," she whispered, trying to breathe through the shock. "It's time."
The next few hours were a chaotic, terrifying sprint. The auto-rickshaw ride through Delhi traffic was a nightmare of stops and starts, the driver expertly weaving through the crush of vehicles while Arun held Mira's hand, sweat soaking his shirt.
At the nursing home, the efficiency was clinical, impersonal, and utterly focused. There were no grandmothers with comforting herbal remedies, no village women to soothe and guide her. There was only the white light, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the crisp, distant voice of the attending nurse. Arun, his pragmatic shield entirely dissolved, was a wreck. He was the logistics expert who had lost all control of the supply chain.
For hours, he paced outside the operating theatre, seeing Mira's calm, determined face imprinted behind his eyelids. He wasn't thinking about stock levels or rent payments. He was thinking of the life they had traded, the security they had sold, and the profound, unprotected vulnerability of the mountain girl he had brought to this concrete maze.
Then, the world simplified. The sharp cry, raw and commanding, cut through the clinical silence.
Arun stumbled into the room, his eyes scanning past the nurses to the source of the noise. Mira was exhausted but smiling, and in the crook of her arm lay a tiny, furious human being.
Arun approached the bed, trembling. He looked down at his daughter. She was perfectly formed, her lungs already adapting to the city's harsh, dry air.
"She's beautiful, Mira," he choked out, leaning down to kiss his wife's forehead.
"She's a fighter," Mira corrected, her voice soft with exhaustion. "She demanded to be heard."
They named her Anuradha, a name meaning 'grace' or 'favour'. For a moment, holding the small, impossibly warm weight in his arms, Arun forgot every spreadsheet, every bureaucratic struggle, every rupee they had sacrificed. This child was the true measure of their successful migration. She was the first Delhi-born descendant of the Thakur line .
Bringing Anuradha home was another intense exercise in contrast. The quiet, cool hospital room was exchanged for the hot, noisy, one-bedroom flat in Lajpat Nagar. The new family of three was squeezed into a space barely large enough for two adults.
Arun took two weeks off work to manage the immediate transition. He realized parenthood was the most relentless job he had ever encountered. There were no breaks, no deadlines, only the immediate, non-negotiable needs of the baby. He loved it, but the logistics were impossible.
The business didn't stop, however. Mira had trained Arun to package the remaining honey stock, but the online customer inquiries—the heartbeat of their cash flow—still required her delicate, personalized touch.
Just four days after leaving the hospital, Arun found Mira propped up on the bed, her laptop open, nursing Anuradha.
"Mira, what are you doing?" he asked, alarmed. "You're supposed to rest."
"I'm resting and working," she said simply, typing one-handed. "A woman from Defence Colony wants to know if the walnut oil is cold-pressed. If I wait, she buys from a competitor. A&M Store doesn't rest, Arun. And neither does a Thakur mother."
Anuradha, bundled in a soft shawl, slept contentedly, a tiny, silent partner in the entrepreneurship.
Arun realized that Mira had not just found her creative strength; she had found her identity as a Delhi entrepreneur. She wasn't just working around the baby; she was integrating the baby into the rhythm of the business. The business was now family, and the family was the business.
Their focus narrowed to a terrifying, single point: survival. They had three months before they needed the next consignment from Himachal to arrive. The gold was spent, the runway was short, and now they had a beautiful, demanding new partner depending on their success.